Unshattered
by obsessedwithstabler
Summary: "It's Michael. Michael's dead." And just like that, Fiona's world imploded around her.


A story of love, grief and renewal. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Not mine!

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Michael Westen refused to go to bed angry.

As a spy, he knew that anytime he walked out that door, he might not return. And he couldn't stand the idea of leaving angry and not getting the chance to apologize. So any time they fought, he made sure that they didn't go to bed angry. If they had to stay up all night and talk through it (or fight through it), they never went to bed angry.

"When do you think you'll be back?" Fiona murmured, reaching out and straightening his tie. Her fingers shook slightly, and Michael closed his fingers around hers.

"I'm not sure, Fi." He was being sent to Europe to locate and retrieve some very dangerous materials, and he didn't know when he would be coming back.

She huffed softly. "The least your handlers could do is have an idea of when you'll be home."

He smiled and gently kissed her forehead. "I'll be back before you know it, Fiona." His hands moved gently up and down her slender arms.

"You'd better be." Her arms slipped around him and hugged him tightly.

He rested his chin on the top of her head and felt the anxiety rolling off of her in waves. "I have to go, Fi."

"I know." She held him for a moment longer, then reluctantly let go of him.

He kissed her forehead and lightly touched her cheek. "I'll see you soon."

"I'll be here."

Smiling softly, he grabbed his bag and left the loft, leaving Fiona feeling alone and deeply unsettled.

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A little over a week after Michael left, Sam and Fiona were sitting around at the loft. Neither was feeling particularly chatty, so they sat in a comfortable silence. Their last case had wrapped up two days ago, and at the moment, they had nothing to do.

Fiona looked around the loft, dipping her spoon into her yogurt. She always hated when Michael had to go off on an assignment without her, or even Sam. She hated sitting around the loft knowing that Michael was alone and there was nothing she could do. What if something happened to him? What if he was abducted, or hurt? A hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

Across from her, Sam was lost in his own thoughts. When Michael was burned and dumped in Miami, Sam had honestly thought that it would be straightened out in no time, and Michael would go back to doing what it was he did best.

He never expected for any of this to last as long as it had.

Fiona suddenly set aside her yogurt. "I hate this." She stood up and began pacing the floor.

Sam watched her with a sad look. "I know you do, Fi. I hate it, too." He finished what was left of his yogurt, then put the empty cup down. "But he'll be back soon.

She opened her mouth to respond, but a knock on the front door interrupted her. She looked at Sam, who produced a gun from underneath his shirt and stood up. They moved to the door, and, giving Sam a pointed look, Fiona unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Agent Pearce was standing outside, and the look on her face made Sam and Fiona nervous. "Mr. Axe. Ms. Glenanne. Can I come inside?"

"Why are you here, Agent Pearce?" Fiona demanded.

Pearce shifted uncomfortably, obviously distressed by the news she was bearing. "I'm so sorry…"

Without thinking, Sam reached out and rested his hand on the small of Fiona's back, needing the contact as much as she did.

"Sorry for what?" Fiona's voice was forceful, but Sam knew her well enough to detect the underlying worry and fear.

"It's Michael. He's dead."

Pearce continued to talk, but Fiona didn't hear her. The sound of her own racing heartbeat flooded her ears, and the room dipped and spun as she sank to her knees.

Michael…

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Two nights after Fiona's world imploded, she stumbled into the loft, soaked to the bone and so drunk she wasn't entirely sure how she'd gotten home.

She was a small woman, and though she handled her liquor well, it still didn't take much to get her drunk. But she didn't stop at drunk. She kept on until she was numb, and when she closed her eyes, she couldn't see Michael's smiling face. Only then did she leave the bar and stumble back to the loft in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Muttering to herself, she stripped her damp clothes off and tossed them into a pile on the floor. Then she crawled into her side of the bed and tried not to focus on the fact that the sheets smelled like Michael.

Despite the alcohol that had numbed the pain, she couldn't stop the tears from rolling down her cheeks, and her lips whispered his name.

"Michael…"

The darkness around her slowly consumed her as she sobbed, and eventually a dreamless sleep enveloped her.

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"Fiona."

The voice rattled around her throbbing head. Her mouth was dry and her stomach churned miserably. She hated the hangovers that followed drinking, but at least it kept her mind off of Michael, at least for a little while.

"Fiona."

Moving slowly, she rolled onto her side, and fresh tears began rolling down her cheeks. How long would this torture continue? How long would she hear his voice? A shudder went through her slender frame. Maybe she didn't want it to stop. At least this way, she could still hear his voice.

"Fiona, why are you crying?"

That time his voice was so clear, so close… She opened her eyes, and she found herself face to face with the man who was haunting her. "Michael…?"

He smiled and gently placed his hand against her cheek. "Why are you crying, Fi?" he gently repeated. "I wasn't gone that long."

Any color that remained in her cheeks disappeared, and she couldn't breathe. Her shaking hand reached out and grasped the front of his shirt. "This isn't real," she whispered.

He winced at the brokenness of her tone. "What isn't real, Fi? What's wrong?" Worry was beginning to take hold, and his fingers absently slid into her sweat slicked hair.

"You're… you're dead…"

His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about, Fiona? I'm not dead."

His skin was so warm, and the tickle of his breath on her skin was real. A fresh wave of tears fell as she yanked on his shirt, pulling him down with her. Then she buried his face in his chest and started to sob.

Michael instinctively wrapped his arms around his diminutive girlfriend. Why would she think he was dead? There had been a fire, and several men were killed. But he had been nowhere near the blaze. How long had she thought he was dead? How long had she been going through this hell?

When she could finally speak again, she softly whispered, "Pearce came here two days ago. She said that you died in a fire."

His grip tightened on her. "Fi, she was wrong. I didn't die."

"But…what if I'm still drunk?" There was a hitch in her throat. "What if this is a dream, and you are dead?"

"Fi, you aren't dreaming," he gently insisted. "I'm right here." His hand slipped under the sheets covering her, gently stroking the soft skin he found there. "I'm not dead. I'm right here."

Slowly she pulled her head back, and as their eyes met, she felt a sense of relief and gratitude washing over her, removing all of the grief and misery. Before she could stop herself, she caught his mouth in a deep, desperate kiss.

He groaned softly and considered pulling away. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he gently urged her onto her back and pinned her against the mattress. Then he ran his hand over her cheek and kissed her again as he slid beneath the sheets with her.

Another tear rolled down her cheek, and he gently kissed it away. "I'm here, Fi," he whispered against her skin.

Her hands came up and quickly pulled his shirt off. Then she unzipped his pants and rolled them off of his hips. He quickly kicked them off, then reached between them and removed her underwear. God, if this was a dream, she never wanted to wake up from it. But he was whispering into her ear, breathing against her skin and touching her so tenderly… He had to be alive. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against herself.

He tried to go slow, to be gentle, but that wasn't what she needed. She needed fast and hard and passionate. She needed to know that he was really there with her. So he finally relented and followed her lead, and when they were both sated, Fiona curled up on his chest and tucked her head under his chin.

His hand moved absently over her shoulder, tracing random patterns on her skin. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Fi," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

Her arm tightened around him. "You're alive. That's all I care about." For two days, she had gone through hell thinking that he was dead. Now he was with her again, and she was contemplating never letting him back out of their loft, or out of their bed, for that matter.

He moved his hand soothingly up and down her back. "Yes, I am. And I'm here with you." And as soon as he could, he would be having a very strongly worded conversation with Agent Pearce about this whole mess.

Sighing softly, Fiona rested her ear over his beating heart. That was a sound she had thought she'd never hear again, and she had never been more happy to be wrong.

Michael held her until she fell asleep, but he couldn't fall asleep himself. So he contented himself with holding her and watching her while she dreamt.

A few hours later, the front door opened, pulling Michael out of his thoughts. His grip tightened on Fiona, but he quickly recognized the footfall.

"Fi? You home?" Sam looked at the bed, and his jaw clenched. "What the hell…?" Moving quickly toward the bed, he prepared himself for a fight. "Alright, buddy…"

"Hey, Sam."

Sam froze at the all too familiar voice. "Mikey?"

Michael smiled at his best friend. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

The older man scratched his head, at a loss for words. "How…?"

"It's a long story, and I'll be happy to tell you over beers tonight. But right now…" He motioned to his girlfriend who was still sleeping in his arms.

"Gotcha." Sam took a step backward, and Michael could see the relief in his features. "Glad to see you're still alive, brother. I'll come back later."

"See you then, Sam." Michael laid his head back down and shushed Fiona when she stirred and whimpered.

With a knowing smile, Sam nodded at his best friend. Then he left the loft feeling like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He whistled to himself as he headed down the stairs and to his car.

After Sam left, Michael ran his fingers lightly through Fiona's hair. He understood exactly what she had gone through, except when he thought she was dead, it was for just a few hours. He couldn't imagine going through that for days. No wonder she didn't believe that he was really there right away.

"I'm never going to leave you alone again, Fi," he promised, brushing her hair out of her face. Then he kissed her forehead.

"I promise."

The End.

A/N: I know, I know. I'm evil. Don't kill me! *runs and hides* Thank you for reading, and please review!


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